


A book called "Intercourse"

by iaj



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Feminist Themes, Slice of Life, multiple OCs - Freeform, series of One-shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 23:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iaj/pseuds/iaj
Summary: Books can be burned, women can be imprisoned, but ideas cannot be taken back. Mayday finds ways to circulate forbidden books, even in Gilead's repressive regime. Six women’s snapshots of one book.





	1. The Handmaid

It had come to the Handmaid fully wrapped in butcher’s paper, like a package for the household, slipped in her hands by the passing Martha of the house. She had dared not even look at it for fear of drawing attention to the package up her sleeve.  
  
It was only in the dead of night that Ofjack pulled out the book and stared at the tattered cover. The words had been scratched off, all traces of the contents of the book hidden from the outside. Ofjack knew it was forbidden; that much was painfully clear. Other than that, however, she had no clue how or why this had circulated into her hands from a Mayday-associated Martha.  
  
Ofjack tucked herself away in the wardrobe of her room, which was the only spot that wasn’t immediately visible if someone were to open the door. She ran her hands over the soft, old paper. It had been a long time since she had read anything - it had been before Gilead, when she was just in elementary school.  
  
On the first page, there was a single faded word - ‘Intercourse’. Underneath it, there was a woman’s name - ‘Andrea Dworkin’.  
  
Ofjack resolved to read the book, and pass it on as quickly as she possibly could. If the Martha of the house wouldn’t take it back, she would have to find another handmaid to take it; or, even, destroy the evidence of her crime. Ofjack had no personal belongings to disguise contraband, and it would not be safe to hide a book for an extended period of time.  
  
But she desperately wanted to read it. Ofjack had been a voracious reader as a child, and after the transition, she had been readily punished for writing with the chalk at school when she could swipe it from the Aunt that taught them. This was the first text she had seen in many years. And the ceremony was tomorrow; Ofjack would not sleep well tonight, anyway.  
  
She read until late in the night, when she stashed the text away beneath her bed and fell into a fitful sleep.  
  
—  
  
_She has this danger, has this power, dominates him, directly as a consequence of her inequality, the meaning of which is in her reduction to a sexual object. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 19_  
  
—  
  
The clinic was one of the few places Ofjack felt had never really changed. The plastic chairs, white walls and fluorescent lighting were the same as the ones that Ofjack had seen for each checkup in her childhood. Of course, the addition of armed guards made the entire experience more nervous.  
  
Ofjack couldn’t help but notice the guards. They were the only people in the room who moved, breathed, shifted. The two other waiting handmaids sat in silence, as did Ofjack. The guards weren’t permitted to look directly at the Handmaids, but Ofjack could see the reflection of one in the glass, and his eyes were locked on the form of one of the other handmaids; or, more specifically, the outline of her breasts beneath the red dress.  
  
“Ofjack!” a voice called. Ofjack looked up and saw the round, chubby face of the gynaecologist. She stood up and followed him into the room. He instructed her on how to lie and which clothes to remove, and then left so she could change without him being in the room.  
  
She lay down as instructed, legs in stirrups, with her skirt hanging down between her legs for modesty. She stared at the ceiling and thought of nothing at all, eyes tracing the grid of joins in the ceiling panels.  
  
Eventually the door reopened, and the doctor entered. He lowered the privacy curtain, and then moved her skirt up above her legs. She heard him put on gloves and prepare the few medical tools he needed - some lube, some swabs, a light and a speculum.  
  
Still, his hands brushing on her thighs as he worked felt electric somehow. Ofjack was not at all attracted to the doctor, and really would rather it be over with, but she was ashamed to admit she desperately missed touch.  
  
Eventually, the doctor finished. “You’re certainly ready for the ceremony,” he said. “All looks to be in fine condition. Have you had any unusual pelvic pain?”  
  
“No, sir,” Ofjack said.  
  
“Excellent, I can give you a clean bill of health for this evening,” The doctor said. He pulled the skirt back up to cover Ofjack, and began writing a note. “You can get up whenever you’re ready,” he said.  
  
Ofjack considered the doctor as she put her undergarments and shoes back on. He was not strictly unattractive; she wondered if he went further with any of his patients than he did with her.  
  
The doctor turned back around, and shuffled the paper. “Now, this is strictly confidential, patient-doctor information. You are a young woman, so you should be very fertile - I can’t see it taking you more than a few ceremonies to become pregnant. But if you do have trouble, come see me in a few months, and I’ll help.”  
  
Ofjack’s mental question was, apparently, answered. “Isn’t that… forbidden?” she asked.  
  
The doctor smiled, “I would never suggest anything that would get either of us in trouble,” he said, skirting the question. “I also understand that handmaids only have a certain number of chances in each house, and may be retired to the colonies if they are unsuccessful. Since I believe you cannot be the cause of a fertility problem, I wouldn’t want that to happen to you,” he said, playing the altruism card.  
  
Ofjack felt numb when she responded. “Thank you for the offer,” she said simply. She wanted to leave, immediately.  
  
The doctor nodded and said goodbye, gathering his things and heading out. Ofjack tightened her shoelaces with shaking fingers. Despite the doctor’s uncomfortable offer, she still felt the lingering soft touch of his gloved hands on her thighs.  
  
—  
  
_This ability to touch and be touched is at stake always, in every choice toward or away from knowing anything at all about the world or oneself; and this ability to touch or be touched is the simple ability to love, so hard to save because hope is so hard to save, - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 63_  
  
—  
  
With confirmation of the ceremony happening, Ofjack’s afternoon was spent busy. Mary, the house’s younger Martha, ran her bath and stood guard at the door as Ofjack cleaned herself.  
  
As the bath water began to go cold, Ofjack felt her heart go cold too. She tried to channel someone, something, other than herself. A mechanical Handmaid with no feelings, playing a role; that was all.  
  
Mary knocked on the door and Ofjack was forced to get out of the cooled water, towelling herself off and dressing in a new red dress for the event. Downstairs, Jack and his wife would be dining; sometimes Ofjack heard laughter and the clink of glasses from down there, but not on the night of the ceremony. Jack would read the Bible passages about peace with things we cannot change, to his wife; whether it was for his benefit or hers, Ofjack didn’t know, but she suspected he did not feel bad about the ceremony nights.  
  
Ofjack began to wonder, for a moment, what bothered the wife - was it simply seeing her husband fuck another woman? Was it a reminder of her own infertility, insecurity? A declaration that she wasn’t good enough alone?  
  
Or did she think of Ofjack, being held there under her, and the role she was playing in the awful event?  
  
Even the thought of that perception made Ofjack want to recoil. As she wrapped herself in a clean red dress, she felt like she was putting some kind of armour on. Inside this dress she did not think, or feel. It was a duty and nothing more; a trade she was making for the good of others. As Ofjack, dressed in red, she had no parents or loved ones; she had no memories of the day her family home was destroyed and she was taken to the Rachel and Leah centre. Instead, she was a committed, faithful handmaid with no history to speak of.  
  
With this in mind, she was withdrawn while Ofjack exited the room and began the ceremonies for the rest of the evening. Ofjack did one thing, acting and performing the perfect Handmaid for the household; while inside, Maya daydreamed of escapes, and far-away adventures in other countries.  
  
—  
  
_Passion becomes impersonal when there is no person inside, no complex human being who is willing to know and to feel. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 73_  
  
—


	2. The Wife

The book had come in the base of a box of yarn for Mrs Edgar. She couldn’t believe how reckless it was, to include that book in a postage box; nor, precisely, who was responsible. But she knew it must’ve been targeted, because it wasn’t just by chance that a book was sent to one of the few wives in Mayday.  
  
The book had no cover, and it was made of soft, aged paper. Mrs Edgar had first picked it up from the box when she was knitting alone in her sitting room; but when she opened it, and saw the word ‘Intercourse’ emblazoned inside in faded print, she slammed it shut and returned it to the box, buried under yarn.  
  
This book had been at the near top of the list of academic works burned by the Sons of Jacob. It certainly was forbidden to own it, and Mrs Edgar doubted she would have much luck convincing them that she didn’t know who sent it if she was found out.  
  
During the day, Wives had a variety of duties; attending to gardening and crafting aims for the household, organising the Marthas, and hosting visitors who may need to contact the man of the house. She would expect a few visitors an hour, whether it be a Martha, a Son of Jacob attempting to organise some aspect of her husband’s life, or another Wife. It was not safe to have a book around in the open until much later in the evening, so Mrs Edgar attempted to push it from her mind as she worked on some knitted gloves.  
  
By the time the hours for visitors ended, Mr Edgar was due to return from work. Mrs Edgar left her sitting room to wait closer to the door. He entered the house just as the sun lowered below the horizon, and Mrs Edgar greeted him in the hallway with a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, darling,” she said.  
  
“Hi, dear,” he replied, sounding a bit distracted. “I have news for us!” he announced, clearly pleased with the news, even if it was a distraction.  
  
“What is it?” Mrs Edgar queried.  
  
“Our house has been assigned a Handmaid from the newest training lot,” Mr Edgar replied, beginning already to move forward through the hallway to move on. “You and I will be parents soon, my sweet.”  
  
Mrs Edgar felt her breath taken away. “But… I thought you’d tell me before it happened? When is she coming?”  
  
“Well, I didn’t have any other notice. Apparently she’ll be delivered tomorrow,” Mr Edgar shrugged, starting to ascend the stairway to his upstairs study. “Don’t be sad, dear. I know it’ll be a big adjustment, but she’ll just be temporary.”  
  
“But I’ll have to see you… and her…” Mrs Edgar protested.  
  
Mr Edgar turned, and looked at her with patient eyes. “Come on, dear. You know this is for the good of our family, and our children. I thought you wanted to be a mother?”  
  
“I want to be the mother of my own child,” Mrs Edgar argued. “I never agreed to take a handmaid in, James-“  
  
“This will be your child. You will be the first woman to touch it, to feed it, to care for it; the handmaiden will be no closer to it than a wet nurse,” Mr Edgar said, sounding almost like a parent explaining to the child.  
  
“It’s still important to me, though,” Mrs Edgar said.  
  
“That is because you are an emotional woman, my dear wife,” Mr Edgar said. “Have trust in me. You are strong, and you will live with dealing with a handmaid for a while. God has given her to us as a blessing and trial at once.”  
  
Mrs Edgar couldn’t argue further, as it was too obvious she was just being dismissed. Her concerns were irrelevant; her husband would try and comfort her, but her opinion would hold no sway on his behaviour.  
  
She turned, and Mr Edgar frowned. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I am going to bed,” Mrs Edgar said. “I have a headache all of a sudden. I don’t think I will need dinner. Sorry, darling,” she finished as she walked down the hallway to the opposite end of the house, with her own quarters.  
  
Once inside, she locked the door, and carefully removed the book from the box. She sat in the armchair beside her bed, and draped the back of a piece of embroidery she was working on over the book, to hide at least what she was doing from the casual observer.  
  
It was at least a ready distraction from what Mrs Edgar would soon be dealing with. Not that her husband knew, but Mrs Edgar had been involved with smuggling handmaids away, as best she could. But she couldn’t do anything for a girl brought into her own house - that was far too dangerous.  
  
But still, she found herself staring at the book, thinking without reading. Mrs Edgar had made it clear she didn’t like the idea of a handmaid, didn’t want one in the house, and didn’t want Mr Edgar to deal with one. This was both for her own comfort, as well as her moral beliefs - her husband’s infidelity was one thing in the abstract, but another when she was involved in holding down the unwilling woman. She honestly didn’t know if she would be able to lie with him as his wife again after witnessing something like that.  
  
Not that she truly had much more of a choice than the Handmaid.  
  
She shook her head vigorously and resolved to read the text, to distract from tears prickling behind her eyes.  
  
—  
  
_In women, being sexually possessed by men is more pedestrian. Women have been chattels to men as wives, as prostitutes, as sexual and reproductive servants. Being owned and being fucked are or have been virtually synonymous experiences in the lives of women. He owns you; he fucks you. The fucking conveys the quality of the ownership; he owns you in-side out. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 82-83_  
  
—  
  
Mrs Edgar had hoped that her husband would be gone in the morning, off on some early work business. But he was seated in the breakfast room, tapping on a laptop’s keys, as Mrs Edgar entered for her own breakfast.  
  
“Good morning, dear,” Mr Edgar said.  
  
“I thought you’d work early today,” Mrs Edgar replied, trying to sound casual as she sat.  
  
“I’m staying until 10 o’clock, when the Handmaid arrives. After the greetings I’ll be away,” Mr Edgar replied.  
  
The room fell into silence, and Mrs Edgar found she had no appetite for the plate that was set out for her breakfast. She glanced at the clock and noticed the hour - quarter past nine. By the time she finished breakfast and dressed, the new girl would arrive.  
Perhaps that was a blessing, but Mrs Edgar didn’t find the lack of time made her dwell on it any less. She ate only a few bites of her food before standing and walking back to her rooms to dress.  
  
Her hands shook on royal blue buttons as she made herself presentable. An Aunt usually delivered each Handmaid; the house’s reaction would be noted, recorded, and judged. Mrs Edgar had to appear to be first and foremost pious, and secondly, at least willing to deal with the girl for the children she would be forced to bear.  
  
There was a smart rap on the door, and Mr Edgar opened it just enough to call in. “A car has pulled up, please come down and join me to greet them.”  
  
“Yes, dear,” Mrs Edgar replied, and swiftly exited her room to follow his way down to the front of the house.  
  
They stood on the doorstep, and Mrs Edgar watched as the Aunt exited first, and then the Handmaid. From a distance, there was nothing unique about the Handmaid - her hood and wings hid all of her face and hair, and her red dress was standard. None of her skin was visible, so Mrs Edgar couldn’t even see the Handmaid’s race - her hands were gloved in scarlet felt. She appeared a little shorter than Mrs Edgar, although not by much.  
  
Mrs Edgar focussed on keeping her breathing even as the Aunt and girl approached. The Aunt reached out to shake Mr Edgar’s hand, and then the girl stepped up in front of them.  
  
She was on the younger side, with olive-toned skin that indicated some hispanic background. She kept her eyes diverted, and her expression blank.  
  
“This is your new Ofjames,” the Aunt said.  
  
“Thank you, Aunt Sarah,” Mr Edgar replied. “Blessed be the fruit,” he said to Ofjames.  
  
“May the Lord open,” Ofjames replied meekly.  
  
“Unfortunately I must go to work, so I’ll leave you in the capable hands of my wife, Aunt Sarah,” Mr Edgar said, pleasantries comfortably taken care of. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, taking leave of them.  
  
Mrs Edgar was relieved to find her Martha, Marie, suddenly behind them. “Shall I show Ofjames to her room, ma’am?” Marie asked.  
  
Mrs Edgar managed to nod, and the two women in scarlet and green entered the house and left her view.  
  
Aunt Sarah lay her hand on Mrs Edgar’s arm. “It can be very hard, for the wives,” she said with a motherly understanding.  
  
“I just wish I had more warning,” Mrs Edgar admitted.  
  
Aunt Sarah nodded. “Have faith, this will all work out, and this trial will grant you children for your godly home.”  
  
Mrs Edgar nodded stiffly, knowing she could never explain to an Aunt the depth of her problems with the Handmaids. “Thank you for your kind words. Would you like some tea before you go?”  
  
“No, thank you, I have many deliveries to make today,” Aunt Sarah said with a smile. “However, if you have any problems, feel free to send for me - discipline issues, temper issues, whatever it be. I’ll make contact with you closer to the ceremony time.”  
  
“Thank you. Under His eye,” Mrs Edgar said by way of farewell. Aunt Sarah repeated the phrase, and then began her walk back down to the car.  
  
Mrs Edgar entered the house, closed the door, and then leaned on it. She heard Marie giving Ofjames an explanation of what each room was, on the floor above. Ofjames’ replies were soft and indistinct.  
  
It was likely Ofjames would never speak directly to Mrs Edgar. Handmaids avoided Wives, and Mrs Edgar had trouble enough in Mayday trying to convince them she was legitimate. There was a reason the Aunts kept an uncomfortably close watch on houses, and particularly the Wives of those houses.  
  
But, she thought wryly, Ofjames and Mrs Edgar had one important thing in common. They both legally belonged to James Edgar, man of the house; while Mrs Edgar might be allowed to voice her complaints, unlike Ofjames, there was no chance of either of them wielding any power unless Mr Edgar felt it suited him.  
  
—  
  
_She is defined by how she is made, that hole, which is synonymous with entry; and intercourse, the act fundamental to existence, has consequences to her being that may be intrinsic, not socially imposed. - Andrea Dworkin, 'Intercourse', p.155_

\--


	3. The Daughter

Hope didn’t remember much of the world before the Sons of Jacob had taken over. She had been seven when it happened, and although she did remember her brightly coloured school backpack, there wasn’t much else different that she did remember. The had lived in a smaller house before, but moved here, and Hope started going to a school run by Aunts.  
  
She was, however, able to read. Hope wasn’t necessarily proud of that fact - reading was forbidden, and she wouldn’t have much use of the skill once she was married in a few years. But when she stood in her father’s study and read the Bible verses he pointed out to her, she felt like she had some kind of secret superpower. Despite that, she hadn’t told anyone - her father had been careful to warn her that it was forbidden to read except under his supervision, and even then it was frowned upon - it was only because she was such a well behaved, intelligent daughter that she got that privilege of breaking this one rule, so she could read the most important book, he said.  
  
So it was a kind of special secret when she read the careful hand on the top of the brown-wrapped package on the top step of the doorway. It said, To Janie, with no other information.  
  
Hope reached down and picked it up, tucked it under her arm and entered the house, considering. Janie had been their old Martha, moved on some time ago, disappearing into a black van at night unexpectedly. Whoever sent the package wouldn’t have known that. But people who disappeared into black vans didn’t return - so the package was ownerless.  
  
Hope opened the door and entered her house, calling a hello to her mother as she considered it. Her mother called back from in her sitting room, and Hope continued on to her own bedroom, closing the door behind her.  
  
Perhaps it was simply an order from the shops, Hope reasoned. She set about opening the paper carefully, and was surprised to see a book.  
  
This was confusing. A Martha definitely wasn’t allowed to read. So was this something to do with why she was sent away?  
  
Hope glanced at the door, to reassure herself it was shut on her pale pink room. If she read the book it would be forbidden - she should tell her mother or father immediately. But then she likely would never know what the book was about. And, she reasoned, she was nearly 15 now. She could think for herself - she wanted to read it, to see what kind of things these unwomen were circulating! Perhaps it was instructions for abortions, or birth control. Once Hope had educated herself on the topic, she would promptly report it to her father, and perhaps leave out the part about skim reading it.  
  
Hope once again glanced at the door, and then sat down on the far side of her bed. She set out some of her knitting supplies, just in case someone walked in, and then placed the book on the soft carpet and opened it.  
  
Inside, the faded title was just one word - ‘intercourse’. Hope didn’t know what that meant. But as she moved into the text, she understood the word “fuck” from rumours about a secret place of unwomen that men would “fuck”.  
  
It was a thrill and Hope was amazed she had found something as forbidden as this. For the next hour she sat and read, illicitly mouthing the words of the pages to figure out the text as she went. She was only interrupted when her mother opened the door suddenly, startling her.  
  
“Whoops! I didn’t mean to frighten you. Didn’t you hear me?” Hope’s mother asked.  
  
Hope tried to slide the book under the bed with her knee as she knelt up. “No, I was focussing,” she said. “Sorry, Mom. What’s going on?”  
  
“You need to get dressed for dinner, dear. We’re having dinner with the Parker’s - you know, the couple with the son in the Angels?” Hope’s mother instructed, glancing down at her watch. “You have a half hour. Wear the nice dress!”  
  
With that, she closed the door. Hope breathed a sigh of relief, and stood up, making sure the book was tucked underneath the bed before she stepped away. She tried to put it from her mind, and opened her cupboard to select a high-neck, long-sleeve, flattering pink dress. The fabric had a faint shimmer to it and it was “the nice dress” in the family’s language.  
  
Once she had slid on the dress, Hope changed her shoes to flats, and went to her mirror. She brushed her dark curls out and examined them against her pink dress. She disliked her dark hair - her mother’s was blonde, and her father’s was auburn, but Hope had a surrogate mother. A handmaid before handmaids, was how Father described it; Gilead had only become a country a handful of years ago, but the Sons of Jacob had been living a holy life before then. Hope didn’t know what her handmaid-mother was like, but she knew her actual mother didn’t like the woman. Hope’s mother had always picked at the dark curls when she brushed Hope’s hair for school as a child. “Maybe they’ll lighten up as you age,” she had said once. They hadn’t; if anything her hair had gone from dark brown to near black.  
  
Putting that aside, Hope neatened her hair and pinched her cheeks. She checked the clock sitting on her vanity, and noticed her half hour was nearly up.  
  
Earlier in the day she had been excited for this. Her mother and father were organising a suitable match for her. Her job was to meet the prospective mother and father-in-law and show them she was a good wife. Hope believed she would be. But reading that book immediately before probably wasn’t the best idea; the words swam in her head.  
  
She tried to put them out of her mind, and exited her bedroom to help greet their guests.  
  
—  
  
 _The fear is fear of power, and fear of pain; the child looks at the slit with a mirror and wonders how it can be, how she will be able to stand the pain. The culture romanticizes the rapist dimension of the first time; he will force his way in and hurt her. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 165_  
  
—  
  
Mr and Mrs Parker were slightly older than Hope’s parents, and they greeted her once they had finished with the man and wife of the house.  
  
Mr Parker turned to her, and slouched a little to speak. He was in his late 50’s, but tall, and there was something offputting about his expression - a lack of care, or blankness. “Blessed be the fruit,” he said.  
  
“May the Lord open,” Hope replied.  
  
Mr Parker nodded and at that sign, Hope’s father led them into the house. Mrs Park stepped behind the group to walk beside Hope. She was a little older than Hope’s mother, and more typically ‘matronly’, with fine wrinkles decorating her face - but she didn’t look old. She wore blue, like all the Wives, and smiles politely at Hope.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Hope said.  
  
“Likewise, dear,” Mrs Parker said. “What a beautiful dress! You look small - do you eat enough?” she asked.  
  
It seemed an oddly personal question, but Hope answered as they were led into her mother’s sitting room and arranged in the sofas. “I definitely do, Mrs Parker! I have a fair appetite, I just use a lot of energy,” she said.  
  
Mrs Parker nodded, as if Hope had passed some sort of test, and then conversation continued with very little input from Hope whatsoever.  
  
“Would you like a drink? Perhaps a toast, to a potential match?” Hope’s father asked, gesturing at the wine that had been set on the table.  
  
“Of course,” Mr Parker spoke, and everyone except Hope drank for a moment. Then it seemed to be all business - Mr Parker and Hope’s father departed to discuss something in Hope’s father’s study, which left Hope with Mrs Parker and her mother.  
  
Mrs Parker, once again, seemed keen for information. “Did the handmaid nurse her?” she asked Hope’s mother.  
  
“She did, yes. Six months,” Hope’s mother said. “She had no nursing troubles, and the birth was easy for the maid.” Hope wasn’t sure how this was relevant, until her mother continued: “I would expect her to be fertile after her pious life.”  
  
“Quite,” Mrs Parker said, taking another sip of her wine. “What are her skills?” she asked, directing the question to Hope’s mother.  
  
“She is a capable cook, but her talent lies in crafting and homemaking; she is a decorator, she sews and knits, and can sing hymns for us,” Hope’s other said. “She has received only the best marks from the Aunts.”  
  
“Excellent,” Mrs Parker said. “And when did she start to menstruate?”  
  
Hope felt this had officially gone a little bit far, and her mother seemed a bit off-put as well. “A good while ago,” Hope’s mother said hesitantly.  
  
“Is she regular? Does she have cramps, or other signs she may have an infertile womb?” Mrs Parker pressed. “I would like to have her examined by a doctor before we agree to the arrangement. I hope you understand.”  
  
Hope’s mother seemed caught aback. “I hope this doesn’t seem forward, Mrs Parker,” she said, “but I have to wonder - do you want a godly wife, or a fertile woman for your son?”  
  
“Ideally, both,” Mrs Parker said. “No offence intended, again. I can see your daughter is very polite, and I looked into her reports by the Aunts. I already know she is godly; what I need to know is that she is also capable of being a mother. We would like to avoid the use of handmaids if possible - they can be bad influences on the husbands, you understand.”  
  
Hope’s mother nodded, and said, “Well, we’ll see about how we go about arrangements when the menfolk return - they will have decided on a contract, if we continue. They should be finished soon. Tell us a bit about your son, Mrs Parker?”  
Mrs Parker smiled and proceeded to do so. “He is a very faithful young man, always busy with his work with the Angels; but he is ready to be promoted to a husband. He is a rash boy in some ways still - he can be a little quick to anger, you know how men are. But he is one of the youngest to be promoted to this rank so far,” Mrs Parker said proudly.  
  
“How old is he, sorry?” Hope asked, curious to learn the age of the youngest to be promoted. She herself was nearly 15, and girls were married whenever their parents and Aunts felt correct after the age of 14. She would have an uncommonly small age gap with her future husband, if this continued.  
  
“Twenty-two,” Mrs Parker said. Hope glanced at her mother’s face and noticed the tightly controlled expression - did she approve of the age gap? Hope herself was a bit shocked to learn it. She felt a lot smaller and slighter than the older men in the Angels, and 22 was still old to Hope.  
  
“Wow, very accomplished,” Hope’s mother said simply, and then busied them all with pleasantries about recent events.  
  
Shortly afterwards, Mr Parker and Hope’s father re-entered the room, with jovial chatting.  
  
“Well, we must be off,” Mr Parker said, “but I enjoyed meeting you! Hopefully we shall see you soon,” he said. “Come along, Jeanine,” he said to his wife, and she obediently followed him.  
  
There was a moment of silence between Hope and her mother while her father showed the Parkers out the door. But when her father returned, he turned jovially to Hope’s mother. “They’re offering quite a substantial bride price,” he said.  
  
“Price?” Hope asked, shocked.  
  
“It’s not a sale,” her mother said quickly. “It’s a government regulation. To help parents who have only daughters, and marry them away - there’ll be no son to take care of us in our old age,” she said.  
  
“Oh,” Hope said. That sounded fair.  
  
“Yes,” her father said, continuing; “and you’ll have a place in a household ruled by your husband - that’s quite a position for a fifteen-year-old!” he said.  
  
“I feel too young,” Hope said. “He’s twenty-two,” she added.  
  
Her father took her by the shoulders and looked at her very seriously. “It’s very important that you take a good marriage and have children, Hope. You’ve reached the right age, and it’s your godly duty; how could you be too young for it?”  
  
“I feel like he’s a lot older than me,” Hope said.  
  
Her father pulled her in for a hug. “Your husband will be like a father to you, Hope. He will guide you the way I guide you; the things you already know how to do, like sewing, and cooking, will help the house; and you will be supported to have children and pursue godly issues and worship. I know it’s a big, scary change, but it’s important to move on from your parents. Don’t you worry - it’ll be many months before the marriage, in any case.”  
  
“You’ve already decided?” Hope asked, her heart in her throat.  
  
“Of course not,” her father dismissed. “Just even if we did, you would still have months. But you did well today, Hope - go get dinner from the kitchen, your mother and I have a lot to discuss!” He then gestured for Hope’s mother to follow him into the room.  
  
—  
  
 _What does it mean to be the person who needs to have this done to her; who needs to be needed as an object; who needs to be entered; who needs to be occupied; who needs to be wanted more than she needs integrity, or freedom, or equality? - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 180_  
  
—  
  
Hope glanced down to the kitchen, and noticed the silence; there were likely plates, prepared earlier in the day by the Marthas, left out for their perusal since there was no official dinner tonight. Nobody to report if she didn’t go immediately, and listened a little through the door.  
Another sin, again, against her parents. Hope silently whispered a prayer for forgiveness, but she couldn’t resist listening against the door.  
  
“… wait another year or two,” her mother said, only a little muffled by the door - she was emotional, and louder than normal. “She said it herself! She’s too young, Martin!”  
  
“She started menstruating years ago, she’s perfectly of age,” Hope’s father replied. “The Parkers want a wife immediately, and our Hope is one of the best candidates; but they wont wait for her.”  
  
“There’ll be other men!” Hope’s mother said.  
  
“We have a bird in the hand, and you’re arguing for the one in the bush!” Hope’s father exclaimed, finally starting to raise his own voice. “She has a man ready for her; she might not feel ready herself, but its better she be married before she feels lust!”  
  
Hope held her breath. She wanted her mother to keep arguing.  
  
“As you wish,” her mother said instead, suddenly quieter and softer.  
  
“Thank you,” her father replied, exasperated. “And you know I can’t let you talk to me like that, dear.”  
  
At those words, Hope abruptly scampered away from the doors. She had only made the mistake of eavesdropping on her mother’s punishments once; she did not want to hear the smack of the belt, or her mother’s crying, ever again. Hope would be married, if the Parkers agreed, and her mother’s objections had no effect.  
  
Hope left to her bedroom, leaving her dinner untouched. She threw herself down on her bed and found the corner of the book in view of her eye, still open where she had been reading when it was stashed.  
  
It was a distraction from the events of the evening. Hope read until late in the night, and she ran out of pages. Then she carefully closed the book, and replaced the brown paper that had been wrapped around it with twine. It was a little wrinkled, but not a suspicious amount. She would toss it into the bushes on her walk to school in the morning. Mother didn’t need to know about it - she didn’t want her mother getting punished again. She would not complain about the match again, either.  
  
—  
  
 _Compliance can occur behind closed doors, out of the public view; but it is not private at all - it is a social act in conformity with a social requirement; the compliance itself is a building block of society as a whole. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 186_  
  
—


	4. The Martha

Ariela sometimes felt like a secret agent, cloaked in Green and in disguise. So long as she was simply viewed as a Martha - one of many, a tool more than a person, with no secrets to hold of her own - she was safe. So Ariela spent the majority of her time avoiding things that would draw attention to herself. She didn’t smoke cigarettes from the black market. She didn’t talk in much more than a soft whisper. She worked hard and kept her head down.  
  
Ariela would likely have never done what she did 15 years ago to get into the USA if she knew about the growth of Gilead underneath the shiny facade. But by the time it became clear that things had gone very, very wrong, Ariela was already a citizen, and not allowed to leave.  
  
She was one of the lucky ones. Of all the friends Ariela had in the USA, very few still lived, and fewer still lived intact like she did. Ariela had transitioned in Mexico, her homeland, a few years before she had migrated based on her husband’s work in the USA. She’d used her adjusted Mexican birth certificate with an ‘F’ on it to get her original green card, too. As far as the USA was concerned, Ariela was a natural born woman; which meant when the purges happened, she was missed.  
  
If she were able to re-grow a beard from laser-destroyed follicles, or produce testosterone from removed testicles, Ariela would’ve considered becoming a man again. But she had transitioned surgically and completely; that was, after all, the only reason she’d been able to pass for so long.  
  
So Ariela tried to avoid trouble of all kinds. Resistance wasn’t an option, as far as she was concerned; the furthest she ever went with illegal activity was ordering black-market hormones. She needed estrogen, or she’d develop osteoporosis, among other things; so this risk was unavoidable.  
  
The package she had received, wrapped in blank paper and left on the doorstep like a shop delivery, was clearly from Mayday - it had the signature extra knot in the paper that had been the code used for the last two shipments; but it wasn’t her hormones. It was far too heavy. Ariela carried it to the kitchen with the other shopping supplies, and hid it in her apron before she put the grocery supplies away. Once that task was done, she went to her room and unwrapped the cover behind closed doors.  
  
The package contained a book, with the details sanded off the cover. Ariela opened it to the faded cover page proclaiming it’s name; ‘Intercourse’.  
  
This was the sort of book that would have someone declared an unwoman, if they were found with it. A way of declaring woman illegal, in her totality; an unwoman is someone that is not worth rehabilitating, an “abominable sinner” in the patronising tone of the Aunts at services.  
  
Ariela was sure that this was too dangerous to have; and if she were anyone else, she would probably have reported it, to come out as an innocent. But any close investigation of Ariela would reveal too much, and probably lead to her death. If she had this, she needed to dispose of it carefully.  
  
So she tucked it under the pillow at the head of her bed, and returned to the kitchen to cook, hoping a stroke of genius came to her. By the end of dinner and the evening’s dishes, Ariela still had no idea.  
  
So she decided to read the book, since she would have to keep it overnight. Tucked in her closet, with a torch, Ariela read the text slowly as the clock crept later into the evening.  
  
—  
  
When Ariela awoke, she was sore from reading with her neck bent awkwardly. It was before dawn, but she had to get up to begin breakfast, and her bedside clock was ringing loudly. She rolled over and silenced it, and got dressed in a fresh dress for the day.  
  
She had finished reading the book the previous night, so she re-wrapped it in the old, soft paper it came in, and placed it in her apron pocket. She opened her bedroom door into the blue-lit, darkened corridor, and softly shut it behind her when she exited. She placed the book in the bottom of the box of trash that would be taken to the Marthas operating the sorting centre, and made it officially not-her-problem by dumping the morning’s rubbish as she cooked into the trash bag over the top.  
  
The sun had risen and the others in the house had awoken by the time breakfast bacon was finished (a rare treat, and only enough for the man of the house, on Fridays). Ariela was surprised to hear someone knock on the door as she cooked, but saw that the Commander walked past the kitchen to answer it, so she didn’t stop her work.  
  
The Commander returned with two Eyes, flanking him, and said nothing as they entered the kitchen. A few steps behind them stood an Aunt. Ariela froze, unsure of who they were there for, or why so early.  
  
“We’d like to ask you some questions,” one of the two Eyes said, his expression stern and unforgiving. The other looked less harsh; he was the ‘good cop’, Ariela guessed.  
  
“Of course,” Ariela replied, dusting crumbs from her hands on her apron.  
  
“You can interview her in my study,” The Commander replied. “Breakfast is finished, right?”  
  
“Yes, sir,”  
  
“Good. Go on, then,” The Commander instructed, and Ariela led the trio towards the study as told. Once inside the shelf-lined room, the unfriendly Eye closed the door behind them.  
  
The Aunt stepped forward with a matronly smile, and gestured for Ariel and herself to sit around the Commander’s coffee table. Ariela hesitantly followed her lead.  
  
“You may be aware that despite our best efforts to control such sins, there are still birth control items circulating,” the Aunt began her speech. “For the most part we find these going to Econowives, but in a recent raid this address was found on a delivery list. Now, the Commander and his wife have no Handmaid and there’s no other women in the house but you; the Commander’s wife is, as you know, pregnant. So we have to wonder - are you responsible for this?”  
  
Ariela felt her heart go ice cold. They didn’t know. Yet. “I would never, Aunt…”  
  
“Lydia,” the dark-haired Aunt filled in. There was a sense of iron and harshness under her motherly voice.  
  
“Aunt Lydia,” Ariela continued. “I don’t want any trouble. I came from Mexico as a young woman, before, when things were… violent against women. I am proud to be part of Gilead’s true faith,” she said, trying to sell it.  
  
“Of course, dear,” Aunt Lydia said. “I’m sure you understand that we don’t want to waste any more time on this matter if you’re not the culprit. We’d like to check you for contraceptives, and then we’ll be on our way.”  
  
“Check me?” Ariela asked, concerned.  
  
“Nothing too invasive, dear,” Aunt Lydia said. “I just need to make sure that you don’t have any kind of implanted contraception, or rings that some unwomen would put in unsightly places. There was one found recently, so we have to be extra thorough,” she said, emphasising the word ‘thorough’ uncomfortably. Ariela wondered what ‘one found recently’ meant - did they find a woman with one? Or did they think that was what Mayday was delivering?  
  
“Where do you need to ‘check’?” Ariela asked, trying to sound cooperative.  
  
“I’ll get the list,” Aunt Lydia said, pulling out a piece of paper and a pencil. “First, we check your inner arms. Gentlemen, please turn your backs to give us some privacy,” she said. The Eyes turned away, and Ariela pushed her sleeves far up to show her smooth inner-arm. “Good, good,” Aunt Lydia said, after running a finger down it and feeling no abnormalities. “I’ll need to have you hike your skirt up for me, dear, to check for those appalling pieces of copper some women are burdened with,” she said.  
  
Ariela injected her hormones into her upper thighs. Hopefully Lydia wouldn’t look there. But, worse still, it seemed Lydia intended to internally examine her, as she pulled on thin surgeon’s gloves from one of her many pockets.  
  
It wasn’t as if Ariela could refuse, though. She lay down on the sofa and lifted her skirt up to her knees, face burning with humiliation. The Eyes didn’t look over, until Aunt Lydia made a puzzled noise. Ariela’s genitals didn’t look much different to a born woman’s, but they still were slightly different looking. The two Eyes didn’t use any subtlety as they looked over and stared up her skirt from where they stood.  
  
“I was circumcised as a girl,” Ariela said, hoping it would be dismissed. “My labia-“  
  
“I can see, they were trimmed somehow?” Aunt Lydia said, nodding. “Okay, just a moment,” she said, and inserted her fingers into Ariela’s vagina cavity, feeling around for an implant. It was uncomfortable; Ariela very much wished her first experience in years of touch wasn’t an Aunt giving her a cavity search. After a few moments, Aunt Lydia withdrew her hands, removed her glvoes, and noted something in the book. “You can sit up,” she said.  
  
Ariela sat up, adjusting her skirt down over her legs, and watched Aunt Lydia write notes.  
  
“You have no cervix,” she said aloud after she placed her pencil down. “I’d like to take a sample of your saliva for a DNA test,” she said, pulling a plastic vial out of her pocket.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Ariela asked, trying to look calm. Ariela was sure if they felt she was an ‘autogynephile’ she would be whisked away immediately; a DNA test seemed irrelevant, because Gilead had never seen need for evidence of crimes.  
  
“No, no,” Aunt Lydia replied. “You have a deformity, so we keep track of the genetics associated with those - part of the science behind Gilead’s strong children, you see.”  
  
“But I won’t have children, with the deformity, if I have no cervix, right?” Ariela replied, hoping to escape it.  
  
“No, but if you have female relatives, even cousins, who are Handmaids or Wives it’s important,” Aunt Lydia said. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she repeated. “Please spit in that vial until it’s half full,” she instructed.  
  
Ariela did as told, knowing no more questioning would be tolerated. She would have to be gone before this test was complete; if they saw a Y chromosome in whatever tests they did, it was very likely Ariela’s lie would be caught and she would be rotting in the colonies within days. She handed over the vial of spit like her own writ of execution, and felt in a daze as she politely showed the Aunt and Eyes out.  
  
—  
  
 _Masculinity itself means being as differentiated from women as it is possible to be; and so the laws regulating intercourse in general forbid those sex acts that break down gender barriers and license those sex acts and conditions which heighten gender polarity and antagonism. The laws that say who can fuck, when, how, and anatomically where keep the man differentiated in a way that seems absolute. Having power, one can break the law for pleasure; but the law itself is a mechanism for creating and maintaining power. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 188_  
  
-  
  
At 11 o’clock each morning, Ariela would walk the house’s trash down to the collection centre. Since her interview finished at 10-to-11, Ariela began to prepare for it immediately after the Aunt and Eyes left. It was a short walk, but Ariela enjoyed the opportunity; most Marthas didn’t see much daylight, but she lived close enough that they didn’t need to have someone fetch their recycling.  
  
Except this would be her last walk, Ariela knew. Because she could not go back home today; she carried the trash, and an extra trash bag of things for herself - some water, canned food, a warm blanket, beanies and socks, and whatever else she thought would be useful for being on the run.  
  
Ariela didn’t want to run, despite having to; working as a Martha could be comfortable, sometimes, and at least not unpleasant most of the time. She had lived in worse positions and places in the world.  
  
But it didn’t matter, because Ariela’s existence was illegal. No matter how much she complied, her very nature was forbidden in Gilead.  
  
After the few hundred meters walking on the street, Ariela stood in front of the collection desk of the trash agency, shifting from foot to foot ever so slightly. The Marthas there knew Ariela; their names were Jo and Ruth, and they were some of the few Marthas who didn’t belong directly to a household. They murmured a greeting to Ariela as she placed her rubbish on the counter, neatly sorted into separate bags.  
  
Even though their shopfront faced the street, Jo and Ruth always kept their eyes down. Men walked past and looked as if totally unconcerned that they might be spotted.  
  
Ariela wondered if the new generation of boys in Gilead all looked at women with the same strange detachment as the elder men. She wondered if they would think she was an abomination, or if they’d think about women differently if they realised this normal-looking Martha was a ‘biological male’. Then she shook herself out of the thought. They’d just shoot her; as soon as her secret was revealed, Ariela would stop being human to them. She turned her attention back to the collection centre counter.  
  
Jo handed Ariela a ticket indicating the household credit gained from recycling, and Ariela began walking purposefully away through male-filled streets. Trickles of Marthas and Handmaids walked about, shopping for houses, but the vast majority of the streets were full of men.  
  
Ariela only knew one person in Mayday, aside from her hormone supplier who had apparently gone down. If she went to see her last contact, she might bring danger with her. But Ariela didn’t know what else to do; she didn’t know who could get her out of the city. So she made her way to the worker living quarters and found the number she had memorised. She knocked on the door.  
  
Ryan looked through the peephole, then opened the door and let her in. Once it was firmly closed behind her, he asked, “What’s going on?”  
  
When Ariela first knew Ryan, he was ‘the straight one’ of the group. Laura, his wife, was a friend Ariela met online. Ryan had worn everything black and slightly goth; but there was no longer a single sign of that. Ryan did a good job at looking like a pious Gileadean husband.  
  
“I don’t know how long until the Eyes will know,” Ariela said softly, “but they’re running a DNA test on me.”  
  
Ryan looked at her like, you can’t be serious, before he evidently decided not to ask for details in case he learned anything incriminating. “Okay, well… if they don’t know yet, you have some time. I’ll give you the address of my best contact for people smuggling. It’s over an hour away walking - you can take the train, if you dress as an econowife, and then it’s a fifteen minute walk.”  
  
“Do you have clothes for me?” Ariela asked.  
  
“I guess,” Ryan said. “I’ll find you something from Laura’s things. But once you’re done you have to go.”  
  
“I know,” Ariela said. “I know, I’m sorry for the risk.”  
  
Ryan disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes and came back with his wife’s green clothes. “They’re a little big,” he said as he handed them over. “But they’re big on Laura too.”  
  
Ariela didn’t waste time, changing in the curtained lounge room quickly. Ryan didn’t bother to turn away for modesty, but he spent a moment peeking out the side of the curtains.   
  
Once changed, Ariela had one last thing to tell him. “Before I go, Ryan - apparently they found my address on a delivery list for hormones or contraceptives or something. Someone was busted.”  
  
“Crap,” Ryan said. “I don’t know who is responsible for your deliveries but I’ll pass on the message.”  
  
“Ditch all your contraband,” Ariela advised him. “Laura and I get the same one, right?”  
  
Ryan nodded, suddenly realising why Ariela brought it up. “We’ll organise something,” he said, although he sounded unsure.  
  
Ariela arranged her hair cover and looked at Ryan for approval. He nodded, and she again picked up her trash bag for belongings - not uncommon for working Econowives to carry.  
  
Ariela had known Laura wouldn’t be there, but they had been friends from before Gilead. Both had gone under the radar; Laura had stolen someone’s social security information to pretend to be a born woman around the time Ariela realised they had no clue she was transgender, officially. It would’ve been comforting to see her old friend one last time.  
  
But there was no time to wait. Ariela would be found out soon, and the longer she stayed, the more she incriminated Ryan and Laura - if they weren’t already on the list.  
  
“Be safe,” Ryan said, “Take the 2nd train line to 8th Avenue. The number is 23. You’re visiting Miriam.”  
  
Ariela nodded, muttering, “Second train, eighth avenue, number twenty-three.”  
  
“Got it,” Ryan confirmed, taking a step and reopening the door to the unit. “Good luck,” he said.  
  
Ariela walked out without looking back, keeping a brisk pace and fitting in with the groups of econowives walking purposefully about. She was too scared to draw attention to look back.  
  
—  
  
 _These laws - great and small - work. They work by creating gender itself. They say what a man is in intercourse, in rights, in obligations. They say what a woman is in intercourse, in rights, in obligations. They forbid confusion between male and female. (…) The laws regulating intercourse are the laws most vital to making gender a social absolute that appears to have a metaphysical base, an inevitability rooted in existence itself. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p.190_

_\--_


	5. The Jezebel

Amy wasn’t the woman’s real name, but it was a good name to use in a brothel, because it meant that Amy was almost always near the front of a group display.  
  
The lineup situation was always the same. If a lineup was requested, all free whores were filed into a room one-by-one and made to market themselves. The men would note down whoever they wanted, if they wanted someone, and then the Aunts would fetch one from the dressing rooms. Anyone who wasn’t picked in a lineup was then put on floor duty. If you were lucky, however, and you were ahead of the other fifty women when you were dismissed, you could, like Amy, tuck yourself away in the powder room corner and read the texts hidden by the women there for the fifteen minutes it took for everyone else to pose.  
  
There was a lot of forbidden items, in Jezebel’s. Some were allowed within the brothel, but not outside; drink, drugs, sex, condoms. But some weren’t allowed, either; women could get their regulars to deliver things, and some girls had Mayday contacts too, so prohibited items like books weren’t uncommon.  
  
The book Amy had finished was an unusual one - a feminist book, a risky book. She wanted to read it fully before the Aunts located it in a search, so she had spent her last week of lineup time reading through it. She was glad she had, because for the first lineup of the week, Amy found herself picked.  
  
The Commander who sat in the client’s chair was in his late 40’s, with the start of wrinkles around his eyes and brow, and greying brown hair. He looked physically fit, but otherwise completely average.  
  
“I’ll take that one,” he said to the Aunt, gesturing at Amy.  
  
Amy smiled flirtatiously, trying to quash her butterflies. Another day, another man, she told herself internally.  
  
“I wish my wife was as beautiful as you,” the man joked as he offered her his arm. She took it with a false laugh. No surprise, he was married. They were all fucking married.  
  
—  
  
_Men can break sexual laws with (…) immunity; or men can break sexual laws with the secret but empirically real sanction of the male-dominant community (…) Social out-rage is power protecting itself; it is not morality. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p.201_  
  
—  
  
The Commander (“call me Greg”, he said) talked about his wife a lot, Amy quickly noticed. He bought her a strong drink and she sipped it while sitting on his lap, as he talked with another man there.  
  
“It’s so nice to get away from home,” Greg was saying, his hand resting on Amy’s upper thigh uncomfortably. “You know, sometimes it’s absolutely stifling, with the wife. It’s so nice to have a little free time with some beautiful, sexy ladies,” he said, evidently viewing it as a compliment as he winked at Amy.  
  
She smiled and took another swig of her drink as the other man agreed loudly.  
  
“The wife thinks the Handmaid would count,” the other man said, slurring slightly - he was already tipsy at the very least. “As if I can enjoy that - the girl lies there like a limp fish, and my wife glares at me the entire time.”  
  
Amy caught the eye of the girl by the other man - she went by the name Jazz, and generally wasn’t very talkative. But they shared a look of distaste together; Handmaids were just about the only women that the girls at Jezebel’s really pitied.  
  
“You have to keep those things separate,” Greg said knowingly, “One chaste wife, one pious breeder, and one beautiful lady,” he said, once again winking at Amy, thinking it a compliment. “No woman can be expected to be all things at once.”  
  
It was almost enough to make Amy lost her expression of polite interest, and she was glad when Jazz spoke up with a new topic.  
  
“Speaking of beautiful ladies,” Jazz said, “I need another drink,” she said to her client.  
  
“Of course,” the man said, rising out of the chair and offering her an arm. “Come with me. Greg, it was nice seeing you!”  
  
“You too,” Greg replied, and the two disappeared into the throng of men and scantily clad women. Almost as soon as they were out of sight, Greg’s hand on Amy’s thigh slid up closer to her crotch. “Did you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked her.  
  
“Sure,” she said with a false smile. “What’s the room number?”  
  
“133,” Greg replied, rising and offering her an arm as well. It had surprised Amy when she first arrived, how common that chivalrous gesture was; but the purpose was very obvious past the fisrt day or two. The men wanted to show off their claim, and also wanted to pretend they were just picking up a woman at a bar. Nobody liked a reminder that their whore was a slave.  
  
Amy took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the lifts, up a floor, and to room 133. Once he closed the door behind them, it was clear what Greg wanted - he immediately pushed her against the closed door and began touching her with a ferocity that was almost unpleasant. He wanted some kind of whirl-wind love affair sex.  
  
From that point, Amy’s thoughts disengaged. She was robotic inside, although she responded the right way - moaned when he wanted her to, pretended to be into it, and followed his lead.  
  
Greg was not a particularly skilled lover, Amy did find herself thinking after a while. He evidently wanted her to enjoy it - but what was the point, when she didn’t want to be there? Even when he managed to make her feel good, there was no arousal; and for the most part his touch was just unpleasant and rough.  
  
Thankfully, he was also not a particularly long-lasting lover. Amy found herself rejoining her own body only a few minutes later as he rolled off her onto the bed, and regained his breath. It was a surprising blessing of the evening, and Amy thought she’d gotten lucky.  
  
Then a ringing ran through the room. Amy looked at the bedside telephone in surprise. The phones existed for the clients to use; you had to dial to an administrator and then have them connect you to the outside world, if you wanted to call anyone. They very rarely rang on their own.  
  
Greg made no move to pick it up, so Amy hesitantly rolled over, ignoring her sticky thighs, and put the phone to her ear.  
  
“Your wife is on the line, sir,” the operator said through the line. Amy held out to the phone to Greg, who grabbed it and put it to his ear without asking anything.  
  
“Hello, Margaret. What’s wrong?” Greg asked. A moment passed and then he said, “No, I’m just networking with diplomats right now…” There was a break as he listened, and then he said, “She did what?”  
  
Amy wondered who was in trouble. Did Greg have a daughter? A Martha was caught doing something bad?  
  
Greg said into the phone, “Take a deep breath, have the Martha keep you company. I’m on my way,” and rolled out of bed, throwing his clothes back on. He swore under his breath as he struggled with his shirt buttons.  
  
Amy glanced between the phone and Greg hesitantly, while he struggled to pull his trousers on in under a second. To ask, or not to ask.  
  
“Fucking Handmaids,” Greg muttered, sitting down and struggling to unravel his balled-up socks.  
  
“What happened?” Amy blurted, unable to resist the temptation any longer.  
  
“Our handmaid committed suicide. My wife is distraught,” Greg grumbled, as if this inconvenience was the worst thing about the situation. “I’ve got to go,” he said, as he finished struggling with his laces. “Lovely meeting you,” he said as he walked towards the door to the room, and shut it behind him with a final click.  
  
Amy lay back down on the bed, staring at the slightly discoloured ceiling. She found herself thinking about the Handmaid. Greg had been a swift, over-enthusiastic and mostly boring lover, for Amy; but after all, that was his role there. She was a whore; her pleasure was unimportant, but the gentleman always made an appearance of an effort, like Greg had. He also appeared to be a considerate enough husband for his wife, aside from his infidelity, given how he had consoled her on the phone. But to the handmaid he was her serial rapist, who considered her suicide an inconvenience.  
  
—  
  
_The legal and illegal fuck create the legal and illegal woman; but the law controls what is created, how, in what circumstances, under what conditions (…) Law creates Lawlessness, and, in each sphere, intercourse is political dominance; power as power or power as pleasure. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, 211_  
  
—  
  
A sharp rap at the door broke Amy out of her thoughts. She sat up just as the door opened, revealing the Aunt patrolling that floor. Her name was Aunt Martha, which was the only reason Amy remembered it, because it was pretty unfortunate for Aunt Martha that they happened to name the whole female servant class ‘Marthas’.  
  
Aunt Martha, despite her amusing name, was an unpleasant woman in her early 40’s who was generally devoid of all human kindness, as far as Amy was aware. She avoided Aunt Martha like the plague for the most part, and felt a moment of annoyance at the impending end of her punishment-free streak.  
  
“You know you’re not to dawdle in the rooms,” Aunt Martha said sternly. “Get up. Get ready. Now!” she barked.  
  
Amy got up as instructed, not bothering to argue - she started putting her clothes on and noticed Aunt Martha glance down at her wet thighs and wrinkle her nose.  
  
“Can I at least freshen up?” Amy asked. “We only finished a few minutes ago.”  
  
Aunt Martha shrugged. “There’s men into everything. No showering. That’s a privilege for people who don’t waste time lying on a bed doing nothing. Wipe yourself up in the bathroom downstairs.”  
  
Amy knew there was a bathroom on every level, a private one, used by Aunts and Jezebels’ on their rare breaks. The one on the downstairs level could only be entered by walking through a crowd of clients around the bar area. She opened her mouth and saw Aunt Martha’s challenging look.  
  
This was the punishment, then. Amy stood up, feeling disgusting from the fluids drying on her skin and her ill-fitting sexy nightgown.  Her hair was a mess, and she knew her makeup was smudged too around her mouth - all things she would need to fix, and all things that would draw attention to her.  
  
Aunt Martha grabbed her by the elbow and marched her down the hall, into the elevator. They stood uncomfortably together as the elevator descended, and then stepped out together. Aunt Martha let go of Amy’s arm and stood off to the side, looking at Amy with a patently patronising, satisfied look.  
  
Amy looked out at the sea of clients, and noticed a few already whispering and gesturing at her. She tried to keep her head up and unbothered as she started her walk into the throng for the bathroom - sex, or having had sex, was nothing to be ashamed of, and these men were the reason she was made to.  
  
As she moved between men, she caught snippets of conversation. Some were irrelevant, some were pointing at her, and one or two were… very interested.  
  
“What a whore, I’d like a turn”, someone said in the crowd nearby. Amy felt tears burn in her eyes.  Walk of shame was one thing; post-rape walk of shame through a crowd of rapists was a whole different deal.  
  
The Aunt at the door took note of Amy as she entered, and Amy moved to the mirror inside, wiping her smudged lipstick off. She only had 15 minutes to become presentable and prepare herself for going back out there.  
  
—  
  
_The ways in which she is devalued are concrete, material, real: sexual, economic, physical, social. They happen to her: not as a disembodied spirit but as a corporal being, flesh and blood. Inferiority is done to her: it is real and she is real. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 216_  
  
—


	6. The Unwoman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic discussion of female genital mutilation in this one, just a heads up.

There was a pulsing, burning pain in Jade’s pelvis as she sat on the cot in the communal living space of the colony. The pain had been growing each day with work, and she wasn’t sure she would be walking after the night. If she failed to get up in the morning, she would die within the next few nights; nobody would nurse her back to health.  
  
Jade’s hands were clutching her knees, white-knuckled and sweaty. She had a fever. An infection, in the wound between her legs, where she’d once had sex organs and useful body functions and the potential to make a child and bond with lover.  
  
As many times as she had heard her vagina called a ‘gash’, Jade found it kind of ironic that she was literally going to die of a gash to the vagina. Her genital wounds hadn’t healed fully before she was sent to the colonies; and the moment she began work with the toxic sand, the healing stopped.  
  
It was, officially now, infected. The others knew, even if Jade hadn’t admitted it to herself yet; she was being avoided, like all the dying ones. _Ignore them; there is nothing you can do_ , Jade was told on her first day there. And it was true. Nobody could help her,  here.  
  
Or so she thought; she considered revising that statement as a resident of a neighbouring cot ventured towards her, a book in hand.  
  
Jade thought she might’ve been hallucinating, as she had no clue how a book could’ve made it here, let alone be hidden for any length of time. But the book felt solid, when it dropped on her lap.  
  
“You look like you could use distraction from the pain,” the book-deliverer said, her features swimming before Jade’s view. “It hurts, right?”  
  
Jade nodded, turning her gaze down to the book. “Thanks,” she said.  
  
“Don’t get any body fluids on it,” the other woman replied, before walking away.  
  
Jade hardly registered what she said, instead opening the book up and desperately starting to read. She read until the lights went out, and then fell into a fitful, feverish sleep.  
  
—  
  
 _The filth of women is a central conceit in culture: taken to be a fact; noted, remarked on, explicated, analyzed, poetized, pornographized, satirized: genital filth, menstrual filth, excremental filth, filth down there, between the legs, in the hole, in the wound oozing blood and slime, dirt and smell; the dirt inherent in the genitals or in her bad character - wash, slut, wash. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 233_  
  
—  
  
Jade woke to the morning bell, before dawn. She felt hot and shivery, and weak. She tried to sit up and failed. Figures moved back and forth in the dim light, but Jade couldn’t see the details; her vision was hazy.  
  
Someone was speaking to her, but she couldn’t understand what the words they said were. Everything hurt, and she retched violently over the side of the bed. There was no food to come out, and it hurt like a punch to the stomach.  
  
Someone put a hand on her forehead, and it felt blissfully cool for a moment, before the figures moved away. They were going to breakfast. Jade needed to get up. She needed to eat-  
  
For a moment, as someone grabbed her arm, she thought someone was helping her. Then a second set of hands grabbed her other arm, and a third her feet.  
  
She was lifted, and a stretcher slid beneath her. It was rough and it hurt on her skin; and the metal edges were painfully cold. The jolt hurt more, and she kicked at the person touching her feet.  
  
Someone smacked her over the head. “Don’t kick,” they said. They continued, but she lost track of their words; there was a buzzing in her ears drowning everything out.  
  
As Jade felt the stretcher moved, she realised the buzzing wasn’t in her ears; it was around them, flying back and forth, brought by the scent of death. She felt a tickle as a fly landed on her hand, and she tried to flop it away; but her hand barely moved, and the fly stayed put.  
  
As she felt her carriers trudge along, Jade saw the sky above her, pink-and-blue dawn. It was pretty, she thought - and then a fly tried to land on her eye, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.  
  
After a few moments, the carriers stopped and Jade was jolted out of the stretcher. It took her a moment to recognise what she had hit; it was damp dirt and a pale, cold, blue-white human arm.  
  
Jade wanted to scramble away from it, but she couldn’t move her legs without losing her breath from pain. It occurred to her, suddenly, that she was about to die; how had it taken her this long to notice?  
  
Jade couldn’t turn to see the sky again. She felt dirt sprinkle over her back, a light covering before tomorrow’s bodies. And then the world seemed to go silent.  
  
Jade took slow breaths of musky ground, with the faint smell of rot from the bodies beneath, and felt the most bone-deep exhaustion she had ever felt. She had no idea if she had been in the grave for minutes or hours. She was in and out of consciousness as the day grew brighter and hotter around her. The smell grew stronger, and she grew warmer over time, and the warmth only made her all the more comfortable.  
  
Jade closed her eyes and imagined her bed back home, before any of this, in the upstairs of her mother’s home. She didn’t hear the rattle of her own last breath.  
  
—  
  
 _For a male, (circumcision) signifies a higher civil status; for the female, the mutilated genitals mean civil insignificance and sexual colonialization. (…) the female genitals per se are reckoned to be a wound, castrated, mutilated in themselves, as God made them; the woman is born genitally mutilated. - Andrea Dworkin, ‘Intercourse’, p. 244_  
  


_\--_

**Author's Note:**

> 'Intercourse' by Andrea Dworkin is a radical feminist text which lines up with a lot of the ideas around the time Margaret Atwood wrote the original text. It's a very interesting read. It also gave me ideas for one-shots in Gilead. To be honest I'm not sure if I like this fic or not but I figured I'd post it, see what feedback I get.


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